


lower down where the figs lie

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Battle Sex, Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Swordplay, and then some good sweet aftercare, the Arrangement is brand new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: With his eyes downcast, he feels before he sees the point of a sword coming to rest beneath his chin. The blade lifts his head, forces his gaze up to Aziraphale’s face, but the motion is surprisingly gentle, like a lover’s caress, and Crowley’s breath catches. Aziraphale is above him, calm and unruffled and the victor. Crowley is practically helpless here, bound and on his knees, human corporation reminding him of its frailty, the loser with his throat bared. But there’s something in Aziraphale’s eyes that makes the tension in Crowley’s shoulders unwind.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 238
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	lower down where the figs lie

**Author's Note:**

> I've been hacking away at this fic for ages, and I finally finished it. It all started because I saw a tumblr post about how sexy swords under the chin are, so yeah.  
> Huge thank you to my support team/beta readers elizabethelizabeth and MovesLikeBucky!

Battle has never been Crowley’s strong suit. Not physical battle, at least. He is wily and cunning, a clever tongue and a busy mind, preferring to whisper foment and let it spread. Battle is something he will actively avoid if he can. But sometimes, there’s simply no getting away from it, not when the humans are so prone to conflict. He often ends up dragged into a mess of violence and bloodshed, much to his displeasure. As time had progressed, so had the ways of fighting, and now, four thousand odd years since the world began, it was swords and shields and armor. Clashing dramatically on open ground; in the mist and mud and misery. Crowley hates it.

Crowley is not a fighter, and it shows when he spends the whole duration of a massive battle hanging on the outskirts, only to wind up getting dragged off as a prisoner of sorts, to the tent of whatever knight is in charge on the opposing side. He didn’t escape the battle uninjured and every pull as they walk reminds him of that. There’s blood coating his tunic, a smattering across his face and chest. He’s dirty and sweaty and exhausted, hair plastered to his face and getting in his eyes. They’ve bound his hands behind his back, the ropes digging into his thin wrists, and he scowls darkly, uncomfortable and irritated. Crowley is already dreading having to deal with their leader, so in a fit of petulance, he digs his heels into the dirt when they reach the tent’s entrance. 

There’s a moment of resistance, his demonic strength showing itself for just a second, but the combination of his sorry state and the strength of the men holding him mean he soon finds himself thrust forward and falling hard to his knees. Crowley grunts as the unforgiving ground sends a shock up his legs, his head bowed as hands force him to stay down. The sound of movement in front of him has him craning his neck up, to at least get a look at this leader, and he freezes.

Aziraphale is standing above him, armor removed, but clearly fresh from the battle as well. His hair is mussed and damp, streaks of sweat visible on his face and neck. There’s blood on his chest and his hands, and he’s still gripping his sword. Crowley stares wide-eyed up at him, and Aziraphale stares back, equally startled. The astonishment on Aziraphale’s face quickly clears, and Crowley knows the men who hauled him in here are saying something, but he’s too distracted watching Aziraphale to hear them. 

The tendons in Azriaphale’s hand are flexing, stark under his skin from his tense grip on the sword, and Crowley realizes he’s staring, ducks his head to cover it up. With his eyes downcast, he feels before he sees the point of a sword coming to rest beneath his chin. The blade lifts his head, forces his gaze up to Aziraphale’s face, but the motion is surprisingly gentle, like a lover’s caress, and Crowley’s breath catches. Aziraphale is above him, calm and unruffled and the victor. Crowley is practically helpless here, bound and on his knees, human corporation reminding him of its frailty, the loser with his throat bared. But there’s something in Aziraphale’s eyes that makes the tension in Crowley’s shoulders unwind. 

Aziraphale’s eyes flick to the other men, and he leaves no room for argument when he speaks.

“Leave us.”

Crowley hears the tent flap open and close, knows they are alone though he doesn’t see it, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s face. The sun had started going down just minutes ago, and the golden light is seeping in through the canvas just enough to give a warm kind of glow to Aziraphale. As he is here and now, sword in hand and lit by sunlight, he looks every inch the holy warrior Crowley knows he was made to be, but there’s a familiar softness in the way he’s looking at Crowley, and Crowley should be wary, he really should be concerned about the fact that he’s a demon kneeling before an angel with a sword under his chin, but he really really isn’t. Quite the opposite in fact, because all he feels now is the swooping heat of arousal. 

Aziraphale has his arm extended, sword a straight line between them, but he sees the way Crowley is looking at him, a confused mix of apprehensive and turned on, and there's a glint of that bastard side in his eye. He shifts his grip, turns his arm so the sword is sideways now, but steps forward to keep the blade at Crowley's throat. Steps forward and sinks down, so now he's crouched in front of Crowley, and the edge of the sword sits against Crowley's skin, pushing almost enough to cut, the sharpness tangible. Crowley lifts his head higher, lets it dig a little harder, and watches for Aziraphale's reaction.

In response, Aziraphale shifts forward on his heels, slots himself between Crowley’s knees, and parts them with his own. He presses the two of them together, still without removing his sword, the contact at their thighs sending something like sparks across Crowley’s skin. Then Aziraphale pauses, softens, brows furrowing as concern twists its way onto his face.

“Is this alright?” 

It's spoken low and quiet, but it cuts into the air between them, heavy with meaning. Crowley understands all the things Aziraphale is asking with one question; not just if he wants this but if he’s physically okay, because of course it's obvious they’re both sporting injuries, and Crowley can feel the ground digging into his knees, the ropes digging into his wrists. He exhales.

“Yes.”

Aziraphale’s expression clears, and he crowds even closer, forces Crowley to straighten his spine, lift his chest from where he had been bent over, raising them both off their heels until they're pressed together from knee to sternum. The sword flashes in Crowley’s periphery, bites into his throat, and there’s an instinctive flash of fear bundled with the arousal, making his pulse pound. Aziraphale's free hand slides down Crowley's back and holds him steady, his other arm raising higher to keep the sword where it is. Crowley lets himself be manhandled, goes wherever Aziraphale nudges him, and tries very hard to think clearly past the blood starting to rush in his ears. Aziraphale can most certainly feel it by now, how affected Crowley is, and the angel is being wonderfully and frustratingly careful. Every move is deliberate, tension thick and tangible, the feel of Aziraphale's hand on his back and the rest of him flush to his front is a blazing sort of heat that sears into him. It's heady and choking and Crowley grounds himself with the feel of the cold metal blade that started it all.

“Didn't know you were so good with a sword, angel.” 

Crowley manages to choke out, because it's also an honest statement. He feels more than sees the way Aziraphale's lips quirk up at that. 

“I was a guard and a soldier. I was made to handle a sword. Thwarting evil and all that.” 

“Are you thwarting me, Aziraphale?” 

It's meant to be teasing, but it comes out a little breathless, and Crowley wants to maybe be embarrassed, berate himself a little for how obvious he’s being. 

“I don't know,” Aziraphale breathes the words out, right at Crowley's ear. “Is  _ this _ thwarting?” 

And Crowley has to choke out a gasp because the hand Aziraphale had on his back has slid around to land on his cock, and lightly drag over the length. 

“It-hngh-can be,” Crowley huffs, “if-hah-AH-you want it to.” 

And he lets out a string of nonsensical consonants, because Aziraphale is stroking him through his trousers and they're both still pressed together, and there's still a sword drawn between them. He feels like a bowstring drawing tight, guided by Aziraphale’s steady hands and the wild strength humming just beneath the surface despite the softness to him. It feels like storm clouds rolling in, and Crowley wants to run right for the center.

All that strength feels like it's distilled into the points between them now. It sits in Aziraphale's arm, in the blade that holds firm, in the way his legs are steady where Crowley has started to tremble. Crowley tilts his head back, eyes slamming shut, because it's almost too much, and his knees are going weak. Aziraphale catches him, of course Aziraphale catches him, and keeps him upright before he accidentally cuts his own throat open, the blade having already left a thin slice, and Aziraphale’s sword arm carefully shifts. Crowley hears the blade hit the floor somewhere next to them, and suddenly that last barrier between them is gone.

“Nnn-ziraphale!” 

Crowley’s eyes fly open, because Aziraphale has brought his mouth down to where the blade had broken skin. There's a shallow cut there, faintly stinging, and Aziraphale swipes his tongue over it, soothes the small wound, and steals what was left of Crowley's higher brain functions.

Aziraphale drags his tongue over the tendons on Crowley's neck, presses kisses in a trail to his shoulder, and now sinks his teeth down. Crowley makes a keening noise, arms twisting in his bonds, hissing out his approval and hopes the angel understands. Aziraphale always does, and he sucks bruises along Crowley’s collarbones, noses his way under his chin and nips at the sensitive skin there. Crowley shudders and wriggles and strains in Aziraphale’s hold, breath starting to come out in puffs, trying to encourage the angel to give him more, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on. With both hands free to lay on Crowley, Aziraphale is steadying him with one on the back of a thigh, gripping just under his arse to keep him upright and close, and the other is tracing the line of his spine, lazily moving up and down and making Crowley shiver.

Aziraphale tilts his head, moves until he can press a sweet simple kiss to Crowley's cheek, and it's so unexpected, Crowley makes a strangled sound in his throat. Aziraphale laughs, and it's a balm on every wound he has.

“I must apologize, my dear.”

“Nnn?”

“All this,” he mutters softly, “and I’ve not even kissed you properly. Terrible etiquette, really.”

And Crowley really has to blink at that, has to take a second to process it, because even just moments before, Crowley had not been anticipating gentleness. But Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s the one that’s radiant, and it’s not fair at all. Crowley swallows hard, tries to gather his wits.

“Still time to fix that.”

Crowley aims for a feigned nonchalance, gets somewhere in the outskirts of it, and he swears Aziraphale’s eyes actually sparkle.

“How very right you are.”

Aziraphale kisses him, properly kisses him, licks eagerly into Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley is happy to let him, lets him take whatever he wants, because that’s how Crowley likes it. Aziraphale kisses him like he’s something precious, but also like something he wants to devour. Crowley wants to sink his hands into the pale hair, drag his nails over the angel’s shoulders, but the pull of the ropes remind him that he can’t, restrained and at the angel’s mercy, and it only heightens his arousal. 

Aziraphale pulls back, laughing a little when Crowley sways to follow and nearly loses balance. He catches him before he falls, then guides them both down into a less strainful position, so they’re sitting on their heels. Crowley makes a disgruntled sound, pinning Aziraphale with a look that clearly says he'd like to continue being ravished, thanks. Aziraphale smiles, cupping Crowley’s face to placate him.

“Patience, dear.”

“I’m a demon, not really our territory, patience.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale breathes, in a tone that puts Crowley on alert, “how about for me?”

“Gahhhh-” because Aziraphale is really giving him those big blue eyes at a range this close, when he’s already incapable of saying no regardless. He viciously bites back the  _ anything for you, angel _ and instead gives his best put-upon tone.

“Fine,” like he’s the one doing some great favor. Aziraphale definitely hears both answers though, his eyes crinkling with delight, and Crowley darts his gaze away in embarrassment. 

“I only wanted to ask what you wanted.”

“What I-” Crowley cuts himself off, feeling thrown. “Aziraphale, you-” he huffs, sputters a little. “Aziraphale, you're kind of running the show here.”

Crowley rolls his shoulders pointedly, in case Aziraphale had forgotten that Crowley is currently tied up and basically putty in his hands. Aziraphale's expression doesn't waver though, still smiling at Crowley, but now it's tinged with something softer. The contrast to his earlier posturing, the way he had been handling Crowley with a borderline roughness, is almost startling.

“I may be leading,” Aziraphale mutters, “but this dance is for you, my dear.”

Crowley's breath leaves him in a rush. And suddenly he's feeling something like awe because this is a demon and an angel facing each other not in opposition but something else entirely. And how is it Aziraphale can still be so giving? 

“You.” He chokes out. “What I want is you.”

Aziraphale softens and reaches out, still so painfully gentle, brushes his hand near Crowley’s temple and catches a strand of hair that’s fallen into his eyes, pushes it back and tucks it behind his ear. 

“As we were? Or would you prefer-”

“Yes. Just like that.” 

Because just remembering Aziraphale as he had been moments ago, sword in hand, taking charge, muscles coiled like he was about to pounce, sends blood rushing south again. 

“If you’re certain…” Aziraphale mutters, as his knuckles pointedly brush across a scrape on Crowley’s jaw.

“I am. I’m a demon, I’m hardly fragile.” 

Aziraphale eyes him assessingly, and Crowley resists the urge to squirm. Aziraphale’s eyes are an intense stormcloud kind of color at the moment, and the scrutiny makes Crowley feel particularly exposed. 

“Alright.” Aziraphale concedes quietly, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Alright.”

He leans in and presses a quick but solid kiss to Crowley’s lips, then hardly gives Crowley a moment to prepare before he’s sliding back into the act. Aziraphale had been loosely holding Crowley for their conversation, but he adjusts his grip now, pulling Crowley upwards and shifting. A snap of Aziraphale’s fingers and there's a layer of furs beneath them, and Aziraphale’s hands are up Crowley’s tunic. 

Aziraphale’s hands press into the dip above his hip bones, find the dimples on his lower back, drag slow up his ribcage. He rakes his nails back down Crowley’s chest, barely hard enough to scratch, and his fingers leave an electrifying trail in their wake. Crowley shivers beneath the touch, at the careful way Aziraphale is exploring. The angel is taking his time, being thorough, and Crowley’s breath hitches as Aziraphale’s hands fan out against the flat planes of his stomach. His thumbs rub small circles into the skin and he gradually moves lower, sliding under the waistband of Crowley’s trousers just far enough to make Crowley whine. 

Then, one hand is sliding around to Crowley's back, the other braced on his stomach, and together they guide him backward. Aziraphale lays him down, careful and with intent. His hair fans out around him, a spill of rust-red across the cream and brown fur beneath him. Crowley's breath comes quicker, as Aziraphale lifts his hips, pulls Crowley closer so his legs are on either side of him, sliding Crowley’s trousers off as he does so. The angle keeps most of Crowley's weight off his bound wrists, tips it into his shoulders, and he's grateful. He is still fairly battered from the earlier battle, bruised and scraped, but Aziraphale's touch overrides every other sensation, chases the pain out of his mind.

Aziraphale is on his knees between Crowley's spread legs, Crowley fully exposed to him, and it sends heat curling up Crowley's spine. He is fully hard already, arousal a heady kind of sensation that makes him groan. Aziraphale hums appreciatively, stroking up and down Crowley's thighs, tauntingly close. 

Aziraphale's hands move higher, slide along dips and curves until they reach Crowley's aching cock. One hand wraps around the length, and the pressure makes Crowley's blood pound. Aziraphale squeezes, strokes, and it punches a breathy cry out of Crowley's lungs. He is steadily climbing, clawing up a wall, and Aziraphale is directly below, pushing him higher. 

Then, Aziraphale's other hand is circling his entrance, light and tentative, pausing there. He is silently asking permission. 

“Yes, please, angel,  _ fuck-” _

Crowley is babbling, unable to spare the brainpower to form sentences when Aziraphale is touching him like this. He would say yes to anything, let Aziraphale do whatever he wanted, keep him tied up forever and tear him apart for all Crowley cared. All his quiet aching, his shadow-wreathed wants, the dark sharp hunger that lives in his bones, all of that is open before Aziraphale now, exposed to the light. He wants to shrink away, coil himself down and hide like the creature of dirt and brimstone he is, and at the same time, he wants to pull himself open wider. He is spread out before Azirphale now, too far gone, willing to submit in any and every way. Let Aziraphale always have the victory and Crowley would consider himself a winner too.

Aziraphale presses one slick finger inside, and Crowley's hips jerk involuntarily, his back arching, his eyes screwing shut. One finger and it's like Aziraphale has raised his sword again. Aziraphale adds another finger, working Crowley open, breaking Crowley open. Two fingers and the blade is at his throat. When Aziraphale adds a third finger, Crowley thinks he might find his end here, the sensation almost too much, Aziraphale's hand curling inside him, twisting, building, coaxing. Three fingers and the knife-edge presses sharp and sweet into his skin, but instead of blood, it's drawing out pleasure. 

Crowley isn't sure how long he'll last, feeling like he's already reached the top of that wall he was climbing, but Aziraphale moves with an agonizingly unhurried pace, not letting him go just yet. He's standing on a precipice, as Aziraphale pulls his fingers out completely, and he whimpers at the loss. He's standing on a precipice, as Aziraphale holds him carefully by the hips, presses the tip of his cock to his entrance. He's standing on a precipice, as Aziraphale pauses for just a breath before he's pushing in, both of them moaning. Aziraphale slides into him, splits him open, fills him. Crowley is suddenly in open air.

It feels like floating, flying, soaring; like he could fall, but Aziraphale is keeping him grounded, keeping him afloat. He hangs suspended in midair, pleasure coiling hot and heavy in his gut. Aziraphale thrusts into him, rocks them both and Crowley lets out some unintelligible sound, grinding his hips down and chasing release. He is tight and tense and every push and pull sends sparks shooting up his spine. Aziraphale shifts as he slides back, changing the angle slightly, and slamming back in to hit Crowley's sweet spot just so. Crowley goes careening over the edge, cries out Aziraphale's name, and he feels like he's dropped into the ocean, the aftershocks of his orgasm like waves breaking over him. 

Aziraphale fucks him through it, keeps seeking his own climax, and Crowley wants nothing more than this, Aziraphale taking what he wants from him. Crowley whimpers at the overstimulation, his tied hands clutching at the fur beneath him, and he feels Aziraphale start to slow in response. Immediately he makes a chiding sort of noise, pinning Aziraphale with a disgruntled look from narrowed eyes. The angel hesitates for only a second before he resumes his pace, pounding into Crowley and drawing a pleased sound from his throat. It doesn't take much more before Aziraphale is spilling into him with a shout, and Crowley is content. 

Crowley breathes deeply into the quiet aftermath, eyes still closed, feeling utterly wrung out in the best of ways. Aziraphale pulls out, pulls away from him, and the loss pulls a low note of protest from his throat. But Aziraphale is gently turning him, hands sliding over his sides, his arms, until they find the ropes that bind his wrists. Carefully, Aziraphale frees him, unites the knots, unwinds the rope, lets the last point of tension in Crowley’s body fade away. 

Crowley rolls onto his back again, sinks into the furs and lets himself go boneless, basking in the satisfying feeling of being thoroughly fucked. Aziraphale is still hovering over him, fussing like he tends to do, and Crowley cracks his eyes open to watch him. The angel’s face is still flushed, but relaxed, gaze roving over Crowley with something so affectionate, Crowley’s breath stutters. Aziraphale’s eyes snap to meet his at the sound, and  _ oh _ , the smile that blooms. The heart Crowley would loudly insist he doesn’t have swoops in his chest and suddenly feels far too big for its flesh and bone cage. 

Crowley tracks Aziraphale past half-lidded eyes and his hummingbird heart, follows his movements as he traces his fingers along a set of bruises dotting Crowley's ribcage and heals them with a gesture. Aziraphale is meticulously fixing every injury he can find, touch light enough in places to make Crowley shiver. It's making Crowley feel far too warm and soft and giddy with a feeling he refuses to name - not here, not yet. His chest is buzzing with emotion, but it feels more like a hum, where it would usually be overwhelming and near painful, and he guesses getting buggered out of his mind had the bonus benefit of quieting his usual anxiety. 

There had been a worry, sitting in the back of his mind, sometime during all this, that Aziraphale would fuck him and be done with it. That this was just sex and nothing more, an extra benefit of their very new Arrangement. Part of Crowley had wondered if Aziraphale would simply send him on his way, kick him out lest he be caught sleeping with the opposition. But Aziraphale's eyes had been so very earnest, genuine in their concern, and for as much as they both enjoyed Aziraphale shoving him around, the angel had been careful, was still being careful. Crowley hadn't been told to go, had in fact, been made more comfortable where he was, and Aziraphale seemed in no hurry to part from his company, and his welcoming smile was a lethal thing. 

Crowley feels Aziraphale light his hands on his elbows, slide down to his wrists where the rope has left the skin red and faintly aching. Aziraphale lifts his wrists, cradles them in both hands, and brings them to his face. He inhales deeply and blows out a cool breath, tinged with healing power. The marks and the ache fade and vanish and Aziraphale rubs a circle into the now unblemished skin of one wrist, bends his head and presses a kiss to the joint, and Crowley has to close his eyes again at the sight.

Crowley doesn't even realize tears have gathered in the corner of his eyes until Aziraphale is wiping them away, and he blinks his eyes open. Aziraphale is sitting beside him, the tent lit by dim lamplight, the sky outside dark. The flame of the lamp flickers, casts speckles of light onto the tent walls and makes it look like the night sky. It's like they're in their own world, enclosed in canvas and secrecy, a firmament just for them. Shadows fall over the planes of Aziraphale's face, but they only soften the lines, and his eyes are bright as they meet Crowley's own. Crowley feels his heart clench. 

"Aziraphale, I-"

And he stops himself. There are stars on his tongue, bright and burning and waiting to be born, like ones his hands had cradled a long time ago. There are stars that are words, galaxies of their own for all the meaning behind them and Crowley bites them all back, letting the newborn fire of them burn in his mouth. It's too soon, too raw, and Crowley can tell it's not yet time. Crowley tucks them behind his teeth, intrinsically knows they will simmer there for a while. One day, he’ll pull them from his mouth, light and fire and sentiments he cannot name here. 

“Aziraphale…”

Here and now, where there’s still too much conflict, too much tension, too much opposites and enemies and thwarting, though the Arrangement will curb some of that. There are words already fully formed, and he can feel the shape of them with his tongue. He looks at Aziraphale, knows the stakes and the weight of them, and forces them down. Aziraphale looks back. Crowley has kept his feelings deep and hidden, paranoid of the consequences, and they sat like weights in his ribcage, until he couldn't hold them back anymore, helpless in the wake of Aziraphale’s touch. Aziraphale knew now, had to know, could literally sense love, and it terrified Crowley. Aziraphale knew. 

“I know.” Aziraphale says, quiet and thick. “And I, you.”

Crowley feels weightless. 

There had been something tight and choking, something braced for the worst, something wounded and dark and bitter coiled tightly inside Crowley, that had been there since first meeting Aziraphale. It had been tense and waiting for centuries, unsheathed claws hooked in his heart and ready to tear, and it had sat even more on edge this past evening, fully expecting the other shoe to drop. But Aziraphale knew and Aziraphale felt the same. That tightly coiled something carefully unwinds and begins to dissipate. Crowley knows it will take a while to vanish entirely, but it is enough, the venom is being pulled from his body with every gentle deliberate stroke of Aziraphale’s hands. 

The air is warm, but Crowley shivers anyway, feeling undone. Aziraphale is above him, a beacon in the night; safety, shore. Crowley watches as he folds himself down, slots into place beside Crowley like he was made to be there, lays himself out beside a demon. Aziraphale settles onto his side, reaches for him, and Crowley is helpless, drawn like a magnet into the embrace. He clings to the touch, to every soft curve contrasting with his sharp angles, to the way plushness becomes solid strength, diluted into a human body, divine and immeasurable. Aziraphale is a soldier, meant to smite the enemies of Heaven, to carry out God’s wrath, to kick every filthy demon he encounters back down to the bowels of Hell. But Aziraphale is also a guardian, and he has chosen to take that mantle far more above the other. Chosen to be a protector. Of humanity, of course, but also of  _ Crowley _ . Aziraphale should cut him down where he stands, the brimstone and fire of him, the dirt and the darkness, should send his damned soul running. But Aziraphale wraps strong arms around his back, rubs circles in the skin where his wings are tucked away, and presses their cheeks together. 

This is where Crowley wants to exist forever, tangled with Aziraphale and tucked somewhere away from the rest of the world. He knows it can’t last, knows he’ll have to leave in the morning, but for now he lets himself bask in Aziraphale’s warmth. He turns his head just a fraction, makes the contact firmer, and he can tell Aziraphale is smiling. There is a kiss, quick and chaste, right on the coiling snake tattoo, and Crowley winds himself tighter into Aziraphale’s arms. The lamp goes out with a snap, and there’s another fur over them, and they both drift off, just like that; mismatched pieces that somehow still fit together.

When day breaks the next morning, Crowley darts into the woods, having already slipped out of the tent and through the rest of the camp. He had left in the pre-dawn light, with sleep still in Aziraphale’s eyes, and a sluggish sort of affection to him. Aziraphale had watched him dress, had stepped up and adjusted his collar, his cuffs, his hair. Crowley had licked his lips, watched Aziraphale watching the movement and grinned, teasing, relishing the blush it brought out in the angel’s face. Aziraphale had muttered something about getting in touch later, and bustled him to the entrance as Crowley laughed. There they paused, the moment heavy between them, and Crowley had suddenly been unsure. 

Something must have shown in his face because Aziraphale had huffed and dragged him into a kiss that made his toes curl, chased that doubt away with his tongue and teeth. Crowley is glad no one is around to see the look on his face at the memory, the soppiness of him. Hidden among leaves and bark and shadows, he remembers how Aziraphale had told him to be careful, but it had sounded a lot like something else. The trees are starting to thin, and he smiles, quickens his pace. They have time and the Arrangement now and so much to potentially look forward to. Crowley walks out of the woods, and the sun is starting to rise. 


End file.
